The Acrux Expeditionhttp://acrux.dk
Around the world!Tue, 28 Aug 2018 23:43:13 +0000en-UShourly1https://wordpress.org/?v=4.9.8One more thing…http://acrux.dk/one-more-thing/
http://acrux.dk/one-more-thing/#respondSun, 02 Apr 2017 17:52:23 +0000http://acrux.dk/?p=2210The sky was a beautiful azure color. The wind was uncharateristically calm at Cape of Good Hope, but the waves were still smiling at us with white caps in the deep blue ocean below. We had reached the end of the road, quite literally: At the parking lot under the Cape Point lighthouse, the road simply ends. We had hiked up the path to the lighthouse, taken a few pictures, and left one of our stickers. We decided to keep going and hike across to Cape of Good Hope itself. We had brought lunch, and I had asked Camilla to buy cake.

The final sticker of the adventure.

Seven months earlier, I was sitting in the dark of the night, trying to avoid supergluing my fingers to our dining table. I had procured a pack of assorted veneers on eBay and convinced Camilla that “I just wanted to check out the looks of various woods,” when the package arrived. I had selected a sheet of indian rosewood and a contrasting sheet of birch. In about a month, I would be leaving for a conference in Las Vegas, and then I would not really be home until we returned from Africa.

I found a few nights and mornings where Camilla would not be home, and crossed my fingers that she would not return early. I successfully bent the rosewood and hid everything, before she got back. A short while later, I laminated the veneer into small pipes, and again nervously stow everything away in time. A few days passed and I added a birch stripe and sanded everything down – and started over, as one of the pipes were too small. Camilla has a solid eye for lack of cleaning, so I was constantly afraid she would notice some sawdust on the kicthen floor. She must have taught me well, because my cleaning was so good, she never saw any. Even today, one of our kitchen cutting boards shows traces of glue, but strangely, she never commented on it.

After 6 wonderful weeks in the US, we returned to Denmark for at brief stint, before we set off to Africa. For a short moment I had completely forgotten, where I had hidden my works of art, which would have completely derailed my plans. I looked through my pile of climbing gear without luck, before I realized that I should search the only place in our apartment where Camilla has zero interest in looking: The box of one of my whiskey bottles. I smuggled the tiny pieces of wood from the Benromach box to the inner pocket of my motorcycle jacket. Our adventure begun with me having two finger rings in my pocket.

The whiskey shelf in Aalborg.

As we went, I rarely thought about the rings, but one day in Montenegro, we were caught in a torrential downpour. We had to stop, and just stood in the rain for half an hour, while the skies were emptying. We could not have been wetter if we had jumped in Kotor Bay below the mountain we were standing on. My jacket, and thus my pocket, was soaked. I could only hope the rings would hold up. I could hardly start waving them around in the tiny, shabby caravan we had borrowed to sleep in. A quick inspection, however, showed no cause for alarm.

Montenegro, when it is not raining.

We kept going south and all went well, until my bike died under a coal truck in Malawi. Luckily, I managed to jump off, an with me came the rings. That episode led to a complete repacking of everything we carried, something Camilla was in charge of. She evaluated every little thing we had brought, all the way down to the spare wheel bearings. Fortunately, she never made it to my pockets. The rings stayed safe.

Poor Amelia.

We reached Cape Town 5 months after we had left Denmark, despite all the challenges underway. We might have only had one bike left, but nobody had taken the chance to steal my jacket along the way, despite many opportunities. I’m sure my sincere effort to marinate it in sweat going through Sahara was a solid deterrent for any would-be thieves.

The morning we left for Cape Point and Cape of Good Hope, I deftly transferred the rings from my jacket to the left pocket of my pants. The rings had, like our relationship, survived all the struggles of motorcycling through the world’s wildest continent.

Cape Point is overrun by tourists, but nearby Cape of Good Hope is a short walk away, and thus more serene. I found a couple of rocks to sit on, and we had lunch. I might have been a little preoccupied in the conversation, while I considered exactly what I should do next. We made a couple of roastbeef sandwiches and tasted the cake, as a group of beaver-like animals decided to surround us. They wanted our food. Yelling or throwing rocks at them were of no use, and in the end we had to flee. I felt the romance of the situation slip through my fingers.

Camilla wanted to just eat as we walked back. I suggested we sat down again. The unwelcome animals quickly found us, and we had to move. Again. I sat down another place. Camillas patience grew shorter. She kept standing. Right around then, a sightseeing bus had arrived to the otherwise deserted Cape of Good Hope parking lot. Hordes of Americans were quikly approacing us. It was now or never. I took in the fantastic view. Thought about the name “Cape of Good Hope.” Grabbed the rings in my pocket. Smelled the sea breeze. Looked at Camilla. Dropped to my knee.

She said yes. One adventure was over and a new one could begin.

View from Cape of Good Hope.

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]]>http://acrux.dk/one-more-thing/feed/0Africa with fresh eyeshttp://acrux.dk/africa-with-fresh-eyes/
http://acrux.dk/africa-with-fresh-eyes/#respondFri, 23 Dec 2016 21:06:04 +0000http://acrux.dk/?p=2036Africa had become normal. Having spent about 3 months on the continent, we no longer bashed an eyelash at trucks in the wrong lane, pick-ups with 25 passengers, burning plastic everywhere, women with firewood balaced on theirs heads, or men with a machete in one hand and a beer in the other. The grotesque had become the new normal. What now excited us was supermarkets with freezers and tills, cars without scratches, and showers with hot water.

There are almost no limits to what you can bring with you on the bus.

Thus, picking up my parents in Maputo airport was probably a good thing for us. We indifferently steered our rental car into the Maputo traffic. What we by now considered rather civilized driving – at least compared to Cairo, Khartoum, and Nairobi – was a chaotic maelstrom of cars to my parents. They helped us re-experience exactly *how* different Africa is from little Denmark.

After a night at Resotel – the best hotel Camilla and I had experienced since Caesar’s Palace in Vegas back in June – we put Fellucca (Camilla’s bike) in storage at Fatima’s Backpackers in the heart of Maputo. We turned our Renault Duster north to explored the fantastic beaches of Mozambique and the old colonial town of Inhambane.

When we sat somewhere in Ethiopia and tried to coordinated where my parents should visit us, it was easy to suggest Mozambique without any kind of research. A big country far away. What’s not to like? Since then, it turned out that maybe there was not a whole lot to do in Mozambique, especially with the northern three-fourths cut off by rebels and military escorts. We were, however, determined to experience as much as we could there, before continuing into South Africa. We spent the first handful of days experiencing wide, sandy beaches, palm forests, and markets. Mozambique might not be all that tourist friendly, but it is definitely the “real” Africa.

Wonderful cottage right on the beach.

Best beaches I have ever seen – including San Diego and Australia.

Many, many stalls line the road. Here they are hawking wares made of straw.

My mom and Camilla buying mango and papaya.

Cashew tree.

The contrast was stark to us, as we crossed the border to South Africa. We had left Africa for something mostly resembling the US. In other words: We are fans. Camilla had brought Fellucca, who was now stored at a hostel in Nelspruit. Together, the four of us drove up to the small town of Sabie, where, among other things, we visited the local craft brewery, and had our first good beer since we left Germany a long time ago.

North of Sabie is Blyde RIver Canyon, the third largest canyon in the world. We took a peek. The first half of the day was plagued by fog as dense as in San Francisco Bay, but later we had a nice trip to Bourke’s Luck Potholes. It is a fascinating piece of river country with cylindrical shafts carved in the rock over thousands of years by Blyde River and Treur River.

Blyde River Canyon.

The three rondavels at Blyde River Canyon.

A beautiful larvae covered in dew.

From Blyde River Canyon, the somewhat confused plan Camilla and I had devised led us back towards Mozambique to the southern end of Kruger National Park. We spent a day on a self-drive safari and were lucky enough to see a long list of animals. Most spectacular were fighting elephants and a large herd of lions lounging in the sun.

Snapshot from our video of fighting elephants.

Cute zebra kid learning to drink water.

Hornbill.

In the middle of our safari, a christmas lottery ticket appeared from my mom’s bag.

Two male impalas in front and a female in the back.

Crocodile!

Obviously, two countries were not enough for the two weeks my parents had in Africa, so Swaziland was our next stop. This was a mix of Mozambique and South Africa: Sufficient culture and tradition to qualify as “the real Africa,” but significantly richer and more well-organized than Mozambique.

Swaziland is not large, and our four days there were enough to see most of what is there. We stayed a couple of night at wonderful Malandela’s (with a good restaurant), but the highlight was our 24 hours in Mkhaya Game Reserve. Mkhaya is one of the best places in the world to see the heavily endangered black rhino – but despite that, our guide, named Africa, told us that he probably only saw them about once a month.

You cannot explore Mkhaya on your own, so we parked outside and were picked up by Africa in an open Land Rover. In many other parks, the use of 4x4s is purely to look cool, but Mkhaya was such a wilderness that nothing less than a Land Rover would have been sufficient. We were quartered in Stone Camp as the only visitors. We had the entire park to ourselves. Stone Camp is located in the center of the reserve, and you live in really nice open stone cottages. There is no electricity in the park, so all lighting was done with candles and paraffin lamps, giving a unique ambiance.

We did a total of three game drives in the park. Just as our afternoon drive seemed to peter out with only a few herds of Nyala (a type of antilope), Camilla spotted two black rhinos in the bush! Africa was ecstatic with enthusiasm and threw the poor old Land Rover in reverse. Contrary to the ordinary white rhino, which is a grazer, the black eats the leaves of trees. This means they spend most of their time in the bush, as opposed to the open savannah, making them very hard to spot. Also, they are so endangered that there are very, very few of them left. But Camilla was attentive and the rest of us lucky, and we got to follow a mother and her son to the watering hole for about half an hour, until they disappered in the bush again. We finished the day with a three-course meal in Stone Camp, and even though our morning safari at 0600 the next day was rather dull, Mkhaya was a grand experience.

Ready, set – safari!

A yawning hippo!

A male dung beetle pushing a ball of rhino poop with eggs inside – the female is idly sitting on the ball.

Rare black rhinos.

A beautiful kingfisher.

Luxurious stone cottage.

We had the dinner outside surrounded by kudu and nyalas.

We were woken up early by the maid, who brought coffee and muffins before the 6 am morning safari.

We left Swaziland and stayed the night in Barberton at Barberton Manor, a bed and breakfast run by a Dutch lady, who really lived out her dream of being an English lady. The place had a dresscode (which we had no chance of living up to), a complex coupon for customizing your breakfast, and heavy mahogany furniture. It was a very nice place, even if we were not quite what our hostess expected from her guests.

Our room in Barberton.

And then the two weeks had passed. Camilla checked in to Funky Monkeys in Nelspruit, where Fellucca was waiting. I drove my parents back to the airport in Maputo. As we crossed the border to the east, the contrast between South Africa and Mozambique seemed even greater. Mom and Dad got on their plane, and I caught a bus back to Nelspruit. En route, it broke down, and I ended up spending most of the night waiting at a gas station in South Africa, 50 km from the Mozambiqan border. I arrived at the hostel at 0500 instead of 2330 as plannen. It seems that South Africa is still Africa after all.

Finding the christmas spirit is difficult with 34 degrees outside. This plastic contraption does not really help.

Fisherman in Inhambane.

Waterfalls in the botanical garden of Nelspruit.

Beautiful South African countryside.

A largely abandoned asbestos mining town on the border between Swaziland and South Africa. Unfortunately, we did not have time to stick around and explore.

The locals of Swaziland would wear loincloths and carry a stick – even when going to and from school.

In Swaziland, we visited the memorial garden of King Sobhuza II. By mistake, we entered through the royal entrance meant only for the king. Oops. The door was open…

]]>http://acrux.dk/africa-with-fresh-eyes/feed/0Hightailing it through Mozambiquehttp://acrux.dk/hightailing-it-through-mozambique/
http://acrux.dk/hightailing-it-through-mozambique/#respondTue, 06 Dec 2016 15:22:16 +0000http://acrux.dk/?p=1970The frenzy had begun. The truck in front of me was breaking. To my right, a shaking semi was trying to overtake me and the rest of the line. In front of him was a metallic blue Honda Civic with the bass thumping through the open windows. Toyota Hilux pick-ups were sprinkled throughout the hundreds of trucks on the road. Behind me the 25 year old campervan was trying to keep up. The engine had probably always been underpowered, but a quarter of a century of wear had not done anything good to it.

Relieved to be through the biggest pile of paperwork about my crushed bike, we had left Blantyre in Malawi. Heavily loaded, we crossed into Mozambique and arrived at Tete, the north western main city. We camped at a small campsite at the Zambezi river, and I was in the middle of reading a political analysis of Donald Trump’s white house appointments, as a completely normal, somewhat rag-tag campervan rolled in beside us. With French license plates. A completely normal, even boring, sight in Europe might as well have been a space ship here at the bank of the Zambezi. The campervan, which would prove to mean a lot for our future travels. Bernard and Colette debarked.

Only a few minutes later, we had been invited for white wine and peanuts. Bernard and Colette had retired early to go explore the world, and after exploring South America, they had bought an old campervan in France and shipped it to Namibia. We heard about their trip, and told them about ours. It turned out that we were going the same way – south through Mozambique. They offered us to go with them. Then they could take our bags and Camilla, so I could ride the motorcycle properly insteand of trying to balance a 400 kg beast. We happily accepted, especially since Camilla had been quite worried about crossing the rebellious central provinces alone in a military convoy.

Our French hero, Tatouche.

The government of Mozambique does not quite have everything under control. As always in Africa, the situation is murky. An insurgent group called Renamo has been making trouble for the allegedly democratic Frelimo-government the last six months. Renamo is an organization originally founded by Zimbabwe (then Rhodesia) in the seventies with the express purpose of destabilizing Mozambique. In the eighties, they were one of the parties in a civil war. They are still active, but have since them tried to establish themselves as a legitimate opposition party. The rumors says that a few hundred millions dollars of development aid has disappeared in the hands of the government, so lately Renamo has had a bit of a resurgence. This has resulted in a few attacks of trucks and busses, so there are some roads which can only be traveled under military escort. We had to pass two of these.

We set out from the campsite at 0600 the following morning to reach the early convoy at 0800. This convoy covered no less than 250 kilometers and detarted twice daily. We arrived at the staging area and slowly rolled up to the front of the line to hopefully find somebody who knew how things worked.

As we passed by the snake of parked trucks, I realized that this convoy – like most other convoys in Africa – was a joke. I am no expert in escorts, but have done a few in Iraq. Clearly, it is impossible to protect 150 trucks in one convoy. The line streched over 3.5 kilometer when stopped, so I have no idea how long it must have been when it was rolling. And just as I had suspected: Our “escort” consisted of a single police car with two police officers. For 150-200 trucks and cars. In Iraq we would usually escort 10-15 trucks with 4-6 vehicles and at least 20 soldiers. The only thing this convoy could do was make a convenient target for any insurgents.

Trying to reach the front of the convoy before departure.

At least we left almost on time. The discipline among the escorted vehicles was non-existing and everybody attempted to overtake everybody else. If we had been able to stay with the cars up front it might have been better, but with the weak engine of the camper, we quickly dropped down among the faster trucks. It was worst the first hour or so, until people settled into positions. Except a couple of truck wrecks, we saw no evidence of rebellion. After a few hours and a couple of unexplained stops, we made it to the end. We kept going a short while and camped at a cozy lodge at a lake.

A burnt-out bus.

The following day was without any escorts. Bernard and Colette wanted to visit the Gorongosa National Park, and we were happy to follow along. The guard denied me access to the park on my motorcycle – citing a risk of lion attacks – so I parked it behind his shack, and jumped in the campervan. We spent the afternoon with a good lunch buffet, relaxing at the pool, and a three-hour wildlife drive in the park. Our guide was a young South African with fancy hair, but it was his last game drive (the park closes for the season in mid-December), so he was determined to give us a good experience. And he delivered. We saw water buck, elephant, impala, and many other animals, but the high point was a lion family in the dusk. The lioness had just hunted down a warthog for the three cubs to eat. An amazing sight.

Colette and the two of us (I really need a haircut…).

This elephant bull marked its territory by mock-charging us, trumpeting, and waving its ears.

Greater Kudu.

Impala.

The lioness out of breath after catching a warthog for the cubs.

Two of the three cubs having a feast.

Our guide got the Land Cruiser stuck in a ditch, but expertly got it back out after we left the car.

Sunset over Gorongosa Nationalpark.

After Gorongosa, we passed through another escort, this time more serious. The distance was just 100 km, but the escorting vehicle this time was a Casspir armored truck (MRAP for the nerds out there). All the way along the road, patrol bases had been laid out, with soldiers guarding us. Again, we saw quite a few remains from attacks, but had no issues ourselves.

Waiting for “go” for our second, more serious escort.

Not always great roads. Some of these potholes can be quite deep.

We arrived at a campsite next to the Indian Ocean. It was the first time we saw the sea since leaving Alexandria in Egypt. Bernard and Colette pulled out a bottle of champagne. We finished the night with prawns at a local restaurant.

Celebrating seeing the ocean again – and if you are French, that takes champagne.

Great spot, right at the Indian Ocean.

Next morning we had to say goodbye to Bernard and Colette. When we got up, Camilla discovered that we had a flat rear tire, but by now, fixing that is routine. Bernard made his signature breakfast with lots of fruits, and we thanked them for everything as best we could.

Two days of riding later, we checked into the hotel in Maputo. This afternoon my parents arrive, and we will spend two weeks exploring southern Mozambique and northeastern South Africa with them.

]]>http://acrux.dk/hightailing-it-through-mozambique/feed/0Disasterhttp://acrux.dk/disaster/
http://acrux.dk/disaster/#respondTue, 29 Nov 2016 17:23:07 +0000http://acrux.dk/?p=1911[Note: I am aware that I am four translations of posts behind. They will come in due time (two of them are already translated, but not yet posted), but we thought this post was so important that we would post it immediately anyway.]

We were riding in the hills above Lake Malawi. The sun was setting and coloring the sky in nice pastel colors. We passed by a local football match. Camilla tapped my shoulder and pointed to the view. The events of the previous two days seemed to have happened ages ago.

—

“Are you sure he is seeing you,” Camilla asked tensely.
“I don’t know. I don’t think so!” I stopped. The truck, which had started from a coal mine to the right of the road, was now completely across the road ahead of me. He was turning towards me. The seconds were ticking away and the tractor passed by my left side. The wheels of the trailer, almost as tall as me, were approaching fast. I realized that he was not going to stop.

I don’t recall how, but Camilla, who was stopped about 50 meters behind me, told me that I rose from the seat and jumped elegantly to the right. I let the bike fall. I sprinted away, at first away from the truck, but then I turned and ran furiously towards the cab. I jumped on the passanger side steps and knocked deperately on the steel plate and the windows with clenched fists. I screamed out like crazy. The truck stopped, but it was too late. Two of the three wheels on the trailer were already solidly planted on top of Amelia, my poor motorcycle. The driver ran away on foot.

Poor Amelia.

The previous week had consisted of hundreds of kilometers of dirt tracks, punctuated by stays at wonderful lodges and campsites along Lake Tanganyika, the world’s second longest lake. We had entered Malawi, and had spent two days up at Mushroom Farm, at the mission and university town Livingstonia in the mountains above Lake Malawi. Two siblings from Minnesota had wanted some adventure in their life after graduating college. They had googled “lodges for sale in Africa” and ended up buying the first hit, Mushroom Farm. It was a wonderful place. Very chill and with great food. The road up there, however, was in an atrocious state. 19 steep hairpins on rough gravel and skull-sized rocks. The 10 kilometer up took us an hour and a half. Camilla declared that it was by far the most difficult thing she had done on this trip. She fell over twice going up (and twice going down). It might also have been the hardest terrain I ever traversed on a motorcycle. Later on, we met two britsh-south african bikers, who had given up at the sight of the first incline. They thought Camilla was amazingly tough for having done it.

It’s difficult to capture it on photos, but we’re far away from tarmac roads.

Amazingly, no stones have caused any punctures yet.

When you are living under a mango tree…

This guy brought the dinner.

Every night we had a three course dinner right at Lake Tanganyika.

The remains of Kipili Mission (1895).

Toilet at Mushroom Farm.

By far the most creative and artsy toilet on this trip!

Water fall near Livingstonia. Locals bathe in one of the nearby pools.

We hiked to Livingstonia with Gary from England. The girls from South Africa ventured down to the base of the falls.

The church of Livingstonia. Every Sunday, about 500 people show up for service in this tiny village on the top of a mountain.

After getting ourselves down from Mushroom Farm, we followed the main road south. Shortly after, it broke of from the lake into the mountains. The tarmac was good and the views great. 25 kilometers after leaving Mushroom Farm, my bike was under a heavily overloaded coal truck. After a minor panic attack from Camilla, I managed to ensure her I was okay. A swarm of people had descended on us and the truck. I started saving my luggage, and asked people to call the police. They did, but also informed me that the local police did not have any vehicles, so I would have to take a bus down to the town and get the police officer myself. I did not want to leave Camilla behind. The whole situation was a bit too much. A thousand thoughts flew through my head, but it was clear that I could not keep going on Amelia. I pushed all thoughts of the future away and decided to deal with the immediate situation at hand.

Many people had an opinion – people just spoke to us, even in the local language.

Many thoughts going through my head.

On this entire trip, we have met less than a handful of bikers like us. But ten minutes later, I looked up the road and saw a big Yamaha headed our way. A miracle! John and Irene were a couple from Nairobi coming home from a month-long trip south. Irene stayed with Camilla, and John took me to the police station on his bike. John was a large man used to get things the way he wanted them. In no time, he had organized a pick-up truck for the wreck and a police officer to stuff into it.

After that, things went step by step. The police officer, a novice with poor english skills, who did nothing to take control of the situation, started taking measurements and documenting the situation. Meanwhile, John and I – mostly John – had the coal mine workers lift the trailer with large hydraulic jacks to get the bike out. That operation took a couple of hours, but finally Amelia was free. The police officer impounded the truck, I mounted Camilla’s bike with her on the back, and with the pick-up and the wreck up ahead, our weird procession ventured to the police station.

The young and inexperience police officer in the offending truck.

The truck driver, who was from Tanzania, disappeared. I got two explanations. Either he ran because he thought I would kill him – routine procedure in Tanzania, according to the Malawians. Or he ran because he thought he had killed me. No matter what, John reached the owner of the truck by phone. He accepted responsibility. John and Irene then followed us to the nearby Hakuna Matata Camp, and went on their way north. They were an invaluable help.

Our fabulous helpers, Irene and John.

Hakuna Matata is owned by Willie, an exccentric, but very helpful South African. He offered to store Amelia there, at least until we found out what should happen later. As he said, “the police here are the biggest thiefs. If you leave it with them, it will be gone in a week.” And true to form, the next day somebody had already stolen the auxillary LED headlights from the supposedly safe parking spot in the cell block.

Amelia parked “safely” in the cell block.

The following day, we went the 85 km to Rumphi to visit the district police station. A very friendly traffic police chief accelerated the report writing. A process which would normally take a week now took a good half day. The biggest drama happened when the accounting office realized I was white. A police abstract normally costs 3000 kwachas (about $5), which I had duly paid. For foreigners, however, it costs a whopping $100. Camilla tried to negotiate, but we left the station with our wallet $100 lighter. In the other hand, however, we had a piece of paper, which will hopefully be several thousand dollars worth with the help of the insurance.

As we arrived back at Hakuna Matata, we met Jeff og Roz, two Canadian retirees, who are cycling the world. Willie had told them about us, and they hugged us almost immediately, relieved that we – two complete strangers – had not been hurt. We had a great night exchanging war stories with them. Next day, Wille, Jeff, and I went and picked up the bike from the police. We thanked them all and went south.

So long and thanks for all the fish, Amelia.

Hmm, the rear light and the wheel used to be aligned…

… ah, the swing arm mount has been ripped out of the frame!

We re-pack the bags, trying to fit everything one one bike.

Willie, the very friendly owner of Hakuna Matata Camp.

Now we’re in Blantyre, where we have spent a couple of days dealing with insurance and customs bureaucracy. And getting visas for Mozambique. The insurance process should be started now, but who knows if I ever get any payment. At least our insurance guy seems competent. A bigger problem is the 3000 euro deposit I have placed with ADAC in Germany for the Carnet de Passage, the import/export permit for African countries. I’m afraid those money are gone, as I will have to take the bike back to Europe to get them. But that’s okay. We’re safe, and can always save up for a new motorcycle.

So far, we have managed to do the 800 km from the coal mine to Blantyre two-up on Camilla’s now heavily loaded bike. We expect to continue this way. The plan is to go through Mozambique to Maputo, where we’ll have a long planned visit from my parents. After exploring southern Mozambique and northern South Africa with them for two weeks (in a rental car), we will take the quickest route to Cape Town and ship the bike home. I Cape Town, we plan to rent a 4wd camper and explore South Africa a bit more. Riding two-up is not so comfortable.

All in all, we’re doing well and have done almost everything we need to do to close the chapter on my crushed motorcycle for now. We look forward to moving on!

Sunrise over Lake Malawi.

The friendly herbivore Malawisaurus (yes, that is its name), displayed at the museum in Karonga.

Practice makes perfect.

Muzungu take a picture! Uhm, okay…

]]>http://acrux.dk/disaster/feed/0On back roads to Ugandahttp://acrux.dk/on-back-roads-to-uganda/
http://acrux.dk/on-back-roads-to-uganda/#respondTue, 01 Nov 2016 17:56:27 +0000http://acrux.dk/?p=1930“No! I’m done with this crap! This road is so uneven, and I hate riding on top of a berm so I can’t reach the ground!” It was one of those rare occations where Camilla was truly angry.
“Oh, you’re doing fine. Just put it in first gear and keep a steady pace.” Our intercom was a double-edged sword. On one hand, it was my best opportunity to calm her down, on the other, it was her best opportunity to let her anger out on me.
“No! I’m stopping here! I’m sick of you pulling me out on these shitty roads!”
I timidly tried to interject that I had actually suggested going on the main road, now that we had had a late start. That idea had been rejected due to the dangerous truck-overtakings and dense traffic. Camilla was aware that we had both agreed taking the small Suam border north around Mount Elgon, but right now it was pretty convenient to blame me. I pulled in my clutch and waited.

Two days earlier, we had arrived at our first stop after Nairobi. A cozy campground at Lake Naivasha with cold Guiness and a view to hippos. We spent a day hiking through Hell’s Gate, the only national park in Kenya you’re allowed to enter on foot. We did a 31 km circle through the park to the great amazement of the lone park ranger we met. The first half was fine, with pretty rocks and a good amount of wildlife: zebras, warthogs, impalas, and gazelles. The last half was rather disappointing. It went past a set of very industrial geothermal power plants. Incredible what you can get away with in national parks in Africa. We certainly felt that our guide book was way too generous in it’s description of the park, but we did get some much needed excercise.

Cozy campsite right at the hippos’ bedroom. We heard them all through the night.

Apparantly, there is always fire danger in Kenya…

We named him Sylvester.

Impalas.

Impalas, warthogs, gazelles, and zebras.

The monkey Albert stole all our bread! We had to make do with crackes on our 31 km hike.

The geysers roared in Hell’s Gate. The other side of the mountain was full of power plants.

Check point for the geothermal power plant in Hell’s Gate national park.

In Africa, national parks are not always what you would expect…

From there, we headed north past Lake Bogoria and across two mountain ranges via Kabernet, on recommendation from Chris at Jungle Junction in Nairobi. “That place in motorcycle-heaven!” It was. Most of the road was paved, a symphony of fantastic curves matched by excellent views. The final 40 km were unpaved and went through a mining area. I had good fun on the rough roads, Camilla accepted them grudgingly, nervous about punctures. For me, it was the best riding of the trip so far. We stayed overnight at Naiberi River Camp, a place none other than Bill Gates also stayed in 2009. If it was good enough for him, it was good enough for us.

The next morning, we got up early and packed, so we could reach Uganda. The day started well, the oatmeal was good, and the sun was shining. Camilla was about to pay, so we could get going.

In total, our bikes have four wheels. We put new tires on all four before we left for the trip. We managed to change them on our own on three of the wheels: Both of mine, and Camilla’s front wheel. Her rear wheel is the smallest of them all, which makes the tire extra stiff. After a frustrating afternoon, we had to seek help at a local tire shop to get the tire on. This morning at Naiberi River Camp, I discovered a puncture. On the worst possible wheel: Camilla’s rear. No chance of an early departure towards Uganda.

We had no choice but to take her wheel and tire off. Getting the tire off was fairly easy. Finding the tiny, tiny hole in the tube was harder, but exactly the kind of work that’s Camilla’s specialty. Found and patched. We saved the old tube for any future repairs, and mounted a new tube we had brought. The culprit was something as simple as a metal clips left on the campground parking lot.

Of course, mounting the tire was impossible for us. Fortunately, a very friendly guard on the site, Alex, were more than happy to help. We tried again, but with no luck. He did, however, know a place nearby, which could help. I jumped on my bike, with Alex on the rear seat, holding the broken wheel. We left after I had been thoroughly instructed to yell loudly at any African who might be about to ruin the tire or rim. I’m not good at yelling loudly, which concerned Camilla.

The rear wheel is off, and we are working to take the tire off the rim.

This tiny clips was the culprit.

No need for worry, though. The tiny local fuel station had two tire experts at work, even though it was Sunday. It took them less than 30 seconds to remount the tire. It cost us half a dollar, and I learned a valuable trick for next time we’re unlucky.

Everything was back in order, but the puncture had cost us four hours. It was almost noon. We had two options. Chris had recommended a border crossing north of Mount Elgon. We knew it was on small roads (“stay away if it’s raining”), but not how bad they were. The other option was to take the main crossing just south of the mountain. We were pretty sure the roads would be fine there, but then we’d have to contend with the local truck drivers, who drive as if they are invincible, with no regard for motorcycles. We wanted to go to Sipi Falls, and the distance either way would be the same. Had we managed to leave early, we would definitely have taken the small roads. Was that feasible, now that we were 4 hours late? We decided to take the bet.

And thus, I found myself on a red dirt road in northern Kenya, at the sharp end of Camilla’s wrath. 30 km before the border, the tarmac disappeared. It was dry, but clearly tractors and trucks had driven there in the rain. The road was utterly destroyed, with 40 cm deep, uneven crevices. To be honest, not a very fun place to ride. For Camilla, it was entirely too much. The intercom was silent for a minute. “Okay, I’m coming. I’m sorry, but you’re the only one I have to let my anger out on.” All right.

It was as if something fell into place in Camilla’s head. We had no choice but to keep going. The terrain was difficult, also for me, but nothing she couldn’t handle with a little patience. The limit was solely in her head. As soon as she had gotten past that, it went great. When you are riding on a berm with steep drops on both sides, it’s all too easy to focus on all the places you are not supposed to go. And if you do that, you end up exactly there. Instead, you have to look ahead, pick a line, and stick with it. At 4 pm, we had passed the tiny border post. 85 km to go. Our average speed was 25 kph. The sun would set in 2 hours. It did not look good

Magnificent view over eastern Uganda.

We struggled on. The road improved marginally, and I really enjoyed the first kilometers in Uganda. Camilla fought bravely – though not entirely without complaining – and got through even quite difficult sections without issue. I was proud of her – she is much better than she thinks. Not since my time offroading in the Californian desert, had I seen worse tracks. As Camilla told me later, “good thing we didn’t practice this beforehand, or I would have refused to come on this trip.”

But it did not help. The sun kept marching towards the horizon, and at 5.30, we had to accept we would not make it. In a tiny village, we found a small hospital, and asked if we could camp there. They were very hospitable, despite their poor English, and told us to feel like home. We were very far away from home, but we had a good night in the tent.

Camping at the hospital in tiny Chesoweri.

View of Chesoweri from our campsite.

The following morning we conquered the final stretch to Sipi Falls, according to our guide book, the most beautiful waterfall in Uganda. We checked into the local campsite. I Sipi Falls, you have two things to do: Hike the falls (there are three), and do a coffee-tour. Our host, Fred, could help with both, and became the guide of the day. On our way to the top fall – passing through people’s fields and backyards – it was time for coffee. We stopped at a local family with a small coffee plantation inbetween the banana palms, and Fred took us through the entire process, from coffee berry to final brew. We cleaned the dried beans, roasted them, grinded them, and enjoyed a great cup of coffee in the clay courtyard under a roof of banana leaves. A great experience.

Camping with a view of the largest among the Sipi Falls.

Coffee plantation.

Mini coffee plants.

This is where we learned how to make coffee from the tree to the cup.

Crushing the beans to get rid of the chaff.

Blowing the chaff away.

Removeing the bad beans.

Turning down the heat by removing firewood.

Fred was a good guide, not just navigating the twisty paths of the mountain, but also navigating the culture of eastern Uganda. We asked how to say coffee in the local language, and he laughed. Not only was it very complicated, because they had many words for it, it would also be entirely useless to learn, because the spoke a diffrent language just 7 km away. Luganda, the official language, is only spoken around Kampala, the capital, according to Fred.

Fred also explained that it is common to pay for a bride with cattle or goats or money. After all, the parents have to recoup the school money. But opposite from the Maasai-tribe, which we had visited in Kenya and has a fixed price for a bride, the price here is variable. Maybe according to quality? It is also not necessary to pay straight away. Rich families do, but poorer families are given credit and can pay later. After for example three kids or five years. That gives the new family a chance to save up for the dowry.

From the coffee farm, the hike continued to the upper fall, past the middle fall, to the bottom, where we traversed a set of ladders and steep mud pathways to get down. Not a trip for the faint-hearted. Both Camilla and Fred slipped on the way down. In late afternoon, we made it home, drenched in sweat. We had expressed interest in tasting some local food, so Fred finished the day whipping up a meal of matoke (boiled plaintains), peanut sauce and kale. Fred thought it was strange that tourists cared to eat that kind of everyday food, but it tasted just fine. Quite similar to mashed potatoes.

The largest of the three Sipi falls.

]]>http://acrux.dk/on-back-roads-to-uganda/feed/0Luxury camping in Kenyahttp://acrux.dk/luxury-camping-in-kenya/
http://acrux.dk/luxury-camping-in-kenya/#respondWed, 26 Oct 2016 17:41:01 +0000http://acrux.dk/?p=1915Was I making a fool of myself? Was I bothering them? Was I just the annoying white person? I had told Andreas, that I would do it. I normally like dancing. But as her dusty hand grabbed mine, I maybe regretted a little bit. No way back. I was now hand in hand with a Maasai woman my age, while Andreas was safe behind his camera, watching.

It was the last day of our 3-day safari to Amboseli National Park in Kenya. We had stayed the night in a cabin at a nice lodge at the foot of Mount Kilimanjaro. The weather was perfect all three days, no rain and only few clouds. We had planned to be lucky. And we were! Our first safari was an afternoon trip the same day we arrived at the lodge. We were picked up in our own 10 seat minibus with a pop-up roof and made our way from the lodge to the park. Our safariguide and -driver was named George.

Our cozy cabin at AA Lodge in Amboseli National Park.

We had seen the first three types of animals, even before we reached the gate. A giraffe -gazelle, a zebra, and a Maasai giraffe. George switched on the radio, which allowed the guides to communicate and tell each other about the whereabouts of the most exciting animals, especially the cats. We marveled at the hundreds of zebras and wildebeest, who were heading for the hills for the night, through the dust and the hot rays from the sun. Suddenly, George turned the minibus around and put a heavy foot on the accelerator. Any prying question about what was going on was answered with “moment.”

With our heads poking through the roof and a hand on the frame, we surveyed the landscape. We had a feeling that George had received a tip. We were heading towards a swarm of other minibuses. As we arrived, numerous white people with huge cameras were staring into the distance from under their pop-up roofs. They were looking at three small dots about 200 meters from the road. They looked like tree-stumps. They turned out to be rarely-seen cheetahs. The cheetahs woke up, and the pack of three slowly moved closer to the road. An amazing sight. We were lucky, as planned. And it kept going. A little later, George was told about a pack of four lions, and headed over there. The lions kept their distance, but you can just see them on our pictures.

Beautiful sunset on the savannah.

All we pale tourists wanted a picture of the cheetahs.

Two of three hungry cheetahs.

Two of four lazy lions.

George has 8 years of experience as a safari guide and driver. Despite that, we did not get much information from him. He did know the names of all the animals we cared to point out, but that was the end of it. The elephants, however, did seem to be close to his heart, as he was able to give a little more information about them. They weigh between 2200 and 6300 kg and eat a daily ration of 300 kg of grass. They are clever enough to shake the dust and sand off the grass before it eats it. The females are pregnant for two years, and plan to give birth just before the rainy season in November, to give the kid the best possible conditions.

George said this bird was called Amaco and builds the biggest nests in the world.

George had unianimously on our behalf decided, that we would rather spend the final morning visiting a maasai village, than do another wildlife drive. True, it might be interesting enough, but we had seen lots of people and culture, riding through the country. We speculated that George liked to sleep in and take the easiest ways out.

He dropped us off on the way from the lodge, and three maasai men greeted us, draped in colorful clothes, with shoes made of motorcycle tires, and armed with semes – their huge, traditional knifes. Together, we hiked to the village, one of 28 in the area. One of them spoke english really well, and acted as our guide. The others were silent. Along the way, we stopped several times to look at various animal footprints – hyenas, tortoises, and giraffes.

Upon arrival, we were told to wait outside the city wall, a pile of dry, spiked branches, encircling the village. It consisted of seven huts. Andreas whispered he had the feeling that he would hate what was coming next. He had realized that there would be singing and dancing. Something traditional, which was perhaps more of a tourist trap than a tradition. I love singing and dancing. I was eager to join, perhaps mostly as a reaction against Andreas’ negativity. And just like that, 22 of the 30 people in town emerged, singing and dancing. The women carried their babies on the back and the men all carried a wooden stick. They performed four dances for us: the welcome dance, the wedding dance, the competition dance, and the blessing dance. Not 30 seconds passed, and I was pulled into the fray. It is wonderful to be included in the culture you are visiting, but was this culture, or simply to entertain tourists? Was Andreas right? Is it normal for the entire village to abandon every task to welcome guests like this?

The woman, who squeezed my hand during all the dances, was she the lucky one to hold the hand of the blonde, light-skinned girl, or had she drawn the short straw, being forced to drag the tourist around? In any case, I jumped and danced along the best I could.

The maasai town and I in front of Mt. Kilimanjaro.

Jumping-competition-dance.

The blessing dance.

After all that, Andreas and I agreed, that we were mostly annoying and disturbing them. One thing was that they all had to stop what they were doing, when we arrived, another that we could not quite determine if the maasai people enjoyed the dancing, or it was a chore, like when I have to do the dishes on a Friday night.

The maasai village was round with a diameter of about 30 m. The cattle was kept in a circular fenced area in the middle.

Downtown, Masaai city. This is where they kept their goats.

The maasai introduced us to their natural medicine, which could supposedly help aganst headaches, bad stomach, joint pains, and “manpower” (viagra). Manpower smelled suspiciously like eucalyptus, a fact that was categorically denied. The other types of medicine consisted of dried bark and brances from various trees, to be either smelled or made into tea.

Maasai shaman. Allegedly the maasai never go to the hospital.

One of the locals walked up to us with a dried piece of elephant dung, used to start a fire. Not an easy task, two men shared the hardships. But both Andreas and I are old scouts, and were not so easily impressed – we tried hard to look impressed, though.

Our guide invited us into his tiny little hut. Centrally in the hut was a small fireplace for cooking at day and light at night. In each end was a small bed, lined with cow hides. They slept under their clothes, a couple of pieces of fabric, able to be magically wrapped around your body in a way strong enough to cope with dancing, jumping and hunting.

We were told a little about maasai life, and how a young man has to kill a lion before he can get married – which also requires a payment of 10 cows to the family of the lucky bride. The maasai has a number of rituals. Some pertaining to religion, others to their look. When you are 6-18 months old, you are branded with one or two rings on each cheek. Later, as your adult teeth have grown our, the two middle teeth in the bottom of the mouth are removed. That way, maasais are easy to recognize.

We have been in Kenya for a little over a week. The border crossing from Ethiopia went smoothly. Visa for Kenya took only 5 minutes. There are fuel stations all over the place. Wonderful nature and comfortable climate. Friendly, colorful, and hospitable people. What’s not to like? Kenya is great. Just the change needed after our disappointing time in Ethiopia.

During breaks, we always greet passing vehicles.

It turned out, that what we expected to be a couple of primitive nights on Mt. Kenya, was pure luxury. We pitched our tent on a plateau surrounded by grazing sheep, goats, horses, and cows, near clean toilets with hot showers. A stone’s throw from the campsite was the restaurant in an old stone house. It had a large, raised veranda with views of the jungle, and the huge bamboo couches were soft. The stay was, apart from a trek a bit up Mt. Kenya, pure relaxation, with delicious breakfast and three course dinners. As it was far from the peak season, we expected to have the jungle and the animals to ourselves. We hoped to see lots of animals – monkeys, birds, elephants. Since somebody on the boat from Egypt thought he needed my hiking shoes more than me, I had to do the 14 km hike in my motercycle boots. Not the best solution, but the hike was easy enough, so it worked out all right. The trip was beautiful, but we saw no animals. Fortunately, the dinner was good, when we returned.

The lodge restaurant.

Our campsite.

Jungle hike at the base of Mt. Kenya.

Andreas and our trekkingguide Harrison talked about the bikes. Harrison thought that 120 kph was like flying.

The past few days, we have been staying at Jungle Junction in Nairobi. Jungle Junction is a legendary campsite, which all overlanders, going north or south, check in to. Andreas has been dreaming about this milestone ever since he started planning this trip 4 years ago. Here, we gave the bikes some much needed love, with new chains and sprockets. It has also been a good opportunity to meet others on similar trips. Until now, we had only met a single truck with a Dutch couple at the Egypt/Sudan border, but here are 8-10 other people, going through Africa by push bike, Land Rover or Unimog, travelling for anything from 1 month to 4 years. It has been nice talking to people who don’t think our trip is an insane project. We have also gotten lots of tips and tricks for the remainder of our adventure.

Apart from the campsite itself, we visited the house of Karen Blixen (who was Danish). Even though we are Danes, we had to admit to our guide, that we had not read any of her books. The high point of Nairobi was our visit to the giraffe center, where they raise the heavily endangered Rothschild-giraffes, before they release them to a few national parks. Here, you are allowed to hand feed giraffes!

Tomorrow, we head north west to Lake Naivasha, where we hope to see hippos and flamingos, and eat pizza at the excellent pizzaria, which is supposed to be there. Then we head towards Uganda, to visit the farm my brother, Daniel, used to live on.

Lilac-breasted roller, a bird with many beautiful colors.

Baboons.

Crowned crane.

Elephant-selfie.

Sometimes the bikes need a quick check – even if it is in somebody’s driveway.

]]>http://acrux.dk/luxury-camping-in-kenya/feed/0Awful Ethiopiahttp://acrux.dk/awful-ethiopia/
http://acrux.dk/awful-ethiopia/#respondTue, 25 Oct 2016 11:55:44 +0000http://acrux.dk/?p=1688[Due to a mix of laziness and poor internet, I’m posting this way too late. We have actually been in Kenya for more than a week now, and are preparing our next post. But better late than never.]

“Now it broke! It’s not going anymore! Something just broke!”

It had been a long day already. We had encountered the worst road we had seen this far. 70 km in gravel and mud with so many potholes it seemed the road had been subjected to a World War I style artillery barrage. The average speed had been around 30 kph, but even then, we were still by far the fastest vehicles on the road. We have overtaken innumerable trucks and local Toyota Land Cruisers. Camilla’s panicked voice was the last thing I needed to hear in the intercom, after we had finally reached proper tarmac.

“Easy now. Did you hit the tuk-tuk?” Camilla had been about to overtake one of the thousands of tuk-tuks which have made it from Asia to Africa recently.
“No! Something broke! I think my chain snapped.”
I had stopped a couple hundred meters ahead, and was now suddenly annoyed at the engineer, who had decided that on this particular spot, the brand new road needed a raised median to block u-turns. I rode further ahead, found a place to turn around, and hurried back. The road was not very busy, but we had recently overtaken af few trucks and a bus.

When I got back, the bus had caught up to Camilla, but had fortunately stopped before hitting her. Because of the median, it could not pass her. Helped by a group of overeager Ethiopians, Camilla had been able to move her bike a little, but now it was stuck. I realized that the rough pushing by the locals had lodged the chain tightly between the rear sprocket and the swing arm. The wheel was irreversibly stuck. The bus honked impatiently, but this bike was not about to go anywhere.

We had arrived to Ethiopia from Sudan a handful of days earlier. The nature had abruptly changed from flat steppe to forest-clad mountains. The temperature had fallen comfortably. Our first stop in the country was the northern main city, Gondar. We enjoyed the nature on our way there, though our speed was hapered significantly by hundreds of cattle herds on the road. A recurring theme during our time in Ethiopia. In Egypt, everybody seemed to need to be somewhere else. In Ethiopia, everybody and their entire farm apparently needed to be somewhere else.

In Gondar, Camilla’s good friend Anders sent ud a link from Denmark, telling us that a state of emergency had been declared in Ethiopia a week earlier. Violent protests had erupted among two of the largest tribes in the country, who are not allowed in the government. Aha. That explaned all the soldiers in the streets. We did not, however, feel threatened by any fighting, only very aggressive street hustlers, trying to exchange our money or selling us hikes in the mountains. No thanks.

We spent a day chilling in Gondar. We saw an old church and the 6 castles of the city, built by emperor Fasiladas and his successors from the mid-1600s onwards. They were very similar to European castles, and very interesting for a castle-nerd like me. We also tasted the local food, injera, a kind of sour pancake eaten with all sorts of stuffing. We did not like it.

Three of the six castles.

Enroute south, out of Gondar, we passed several truckloads of soldiers going in to Gondar. We both agreed that it was a good thing we were going the other way. Two days later, after having crossed the Nile again in sort of a green Grand Canyon, we arrived in Addis Ababa.

We were staying with Brauck, an American. He worked for the US government, overseeing the construction of a number of hospitals. A challenge, it sounded like. He lived in an apartment the size of a small palace in Bole, one of the nicer neighborhoods. It was fun to stay with him for two nights and get a taste of expat life. Western people stationed in places like Addis almost live in their own parallel society, and we were introduced to US Marines guarding the embassy, a couple of swanky bars, and a couple of his local friends, collage educated from London. They brought Camilla for some traditional dance on our second night, while Brauck and I had to stay home in the palace with bad stomach. But it was certainly not the worst place to suffer from that.

Given the political situation, we had decided to go more or less directly to Kenya. It would take us three days to get there. Going south, we passed through some of the problematic tribal areas. We never felt threatened, but not welcome either. Most people waved at us in a friendly way, but many other threw rocks, sticks, or water at out. Nobody hit us, though. We passed about a dozen burnt out trucks. A couple of them were still smoking a little, while kids played in others. In several towns, the shops had been burnt down, and glass was on the roads. But there were usually a few soldiers present, and everything seemed calm, even if the mood was a bit tense.

As we moved south, the landscape changed from forest to dense jungle. The banana palms were almost at numerous as the holes in the road, and there were many houses along the road. This was where Camillas bike decided not to go any further. A crowd of locals lifted the rear end and Camilla guided the bike to a halt on the median. 70 onlookers immediately sieged upon us. The Ethiopians are very intrusive. The Egyptians would often stop and look aat us from across the street, but the Ethiopians are very in-your-face. If they did not outright touch our bikes, they were no more than a foot away. I fought my way to my bag and dug out the tools. I did not like the idea of rolling out all of our tools in the middle of the crowd, but I had no choice.

While Camilla tried to keep an eye on our bags, I dove down behind her bike. The chain was certainly stuck, but still intact. It had just jumped off the sprocket. And we had just checked chain tension the day before. The wheel had to come off. Every time I grabbed a tool, 10 hands shot forward to “help.” In the confined space behind the bike, I had no idea of where they came from. Together with the sole local who was actually helpful, I got the wheel off. The sprocket had survived, though its bracket had gotten some deep scratches. They chain had one link which was a bit off, but was otherwise fine. I decided that we could continue without getting any spares out.

Now I had multiple loose parts in play: The axle, a washer, a nut, and two wrenches. Not normally a problem, except they were in a lot of other people’s hands. Fortunately, I had held onto the washer and nut. My only real helper had the axle. Getting an axle into a rear wheel can be a bit delicate. The brake rotor needs to fit into the caliper, the chain must be on the sprocket, and the axle must line up with the holes. The solution my helper chose was to bang the axle with a hammer.

I yelled out and grabbed the hammer from his hand. Everybody had an opinion about why the axle didn’t just slide in. None of them had ever worked on a BMW, nor even seen one. My patience had run out. I laid down on the ground and pushed some locals away. I had had enough of asking nicely. I got the axle in line and tightened the necessary nuts and bolts. I got up and made it clear to Camilla, that I would prefer it if we just got out of here. She had been completely calm during the entire repair, but agreed.

As we were leaving, everybody asked for money for helping. We gave a little to the sole guy who actually helped and left. After a careful start, we made it to Mega, a town 100 km from the border, where we spent the night.

We had planned to cook, but realised that somebody in the crowd had stolen our fuel bottle and fuel pump for the stove. Ugh. Not only was it expensive and useless to him, it was also something we depended on for living. When you travel on motorcycles, you don’t carry very much you can do without. Even stuff you could easily buy in REI becomes irreplaceable. My mood was low, and our respect for Ethiopians was even lower.

Our last picture of the stolen fuel bottle. This guy was not the thief, though.

You have to wonder. In Sudan we saw how people can be extremely nice and honest, even under very tough circumstances. Ethiopia has all the advantages: Friendly climate, good soil, great economic progress the last decade. And still, apparently foreigners are to be yelled at or seen as treasure chests to exploit. Our first impression of the country had been confirmed. Something as simpel as a lunch break was impossible to have without people stepping on your toes. It is sad that such a beautiful country are ruined by its people. Apparently we are not alone in thinking that. The dutch couple we met between Egypt and Sudan said that they loved the Sudanese, but found the country rather uninspiring. Ethiopia? “Amazing nature, but we don’t like the people there.”

Fortunately, the hotel was good and the staff helpful. We boiled water on tinders from their primitive kitchen, refueled from soda bottles, and made it to the border as the terrain changed to desert. Here, the chinese just built a great new road, which we took to Marsabit. The border crossing was easy and the ambience in Kenya felt much better from the get go. Now we’re staying on a campsite owned by a friendly South African. We have bought 7 beers. It’s not so bad being in Africa.

]]>http://acrux.dk/awful-ethiopia/feed/0Wonderful Sudanhttp://acrux.dk/wonderful-sudan/
http://acrux.dk/wonderful-sudan/#respondTue, 11 Oct 2016 20:16:34 +0000http://acrux.dk/?p=1649The strong halogen light on the dusty white walls was in sharp contrast to the deep black darkness outside. The medical jargon flew through the air. I tried in vain to follow along, as the doctor tried to discuss types of antibiotics with Camilla on his broken English. She sat on a plastic chair at one corner of his desk. Our host, Magzoub, sat at the other corner, leaning forward and listening closely. I was a bit behind Camilla, leaning against a hospital bed.

Since long before we left, Camilla has talked about how she looked forward to seing “the African hospitals.” I might have smiled a little. In my mind a hospital is not a tourist attraction you just go to and get a tour. But as soon as Magzoub heard Camilla was a doctor, he declared that we would go see the hospital. Magzoub was known by everybody in the small town Abri. He was the owner of the only place to stay in town, Magzoub’s Nubian Guesthouse. The place had been recommended by a Dutch couple in an expedition truck, who we had met at the Sudanese border.

Magzoub’s Nuban Guesthouse.

It was a primitive place with a handful of rooms without aircondition or any other ventilation. On the other hand, there was no glass in the windows. The rooms shared toilets, but we were the only guests, so we had everything to ourself. What the hotel lacked in luxury, Magzoub gave back ten times in hospitality. He was an ever happy 33 year old guy, driving around town in his 1948 Morris Minor, honking greetings left and right. He invited us to his house for dinner. His wife had cooked delicious korsa and mashi. We – especially Camilla – got to say hi to his 4 month old daughter, and Camilla had to answer a multitude of questions about child care and baby diseases.

When we arrived at the hospital after dinner, it was Camilla’s time to ask. There was a single doctor on duty, who showed us around and answered our curious questions as best he could. The entire hospital had only two doctors associated, who worked opposing shifts. The one we talked to had just been employed there one day earlier, so he did not know many details about their day-to-day operations. We never found out how many people the hospital had to cover, but it was at least an area stretching 100 km north and 150 km south. They had one ambulance, a Toyota Landcruiser with a couple of benches in the rear. When we were there, the hospital took care of maybe 25 patients, but the doctor could not tell us their capacity. Magzoub had clearly taken us there in the hope the we could provide them with some new hospital machines. We did not exactly have any in our panniers, but Camilla was offered a job multiple times anyway.

And just like that, Sudan had won us over with its hospitality and warm people. We had noticed a difference in mood as early as the border control post, and Magzoub in Abri only made the good feeling stronger. As it turns out, the surprises of Sudan had just begun.

We continued on to Atbara, and stayed at the best hotel in town. That does not say a lot, but it had aircondition and a very friendly owner, mr. Adel. We had decided to leave very early the next morning in order to make it to the Ethiopian embassey in Khartoum before it closed for the weekend. We needed another visa. But as we were about to leave at 0645 in the morning, Camilla’s bike would not start. Pressing the start-button only resulted in a clicking noise. We had to take out the tools. At first we thought the ignition relay – the source of the clicking noise – had given up, since our multimeter showed us a good voltage on the battery. But with the help of mr. Adel’s limited English and his friend on the phone, we determined that it was probably the battery that was the source of the fault.

Mr. Adel made another couple of calls, and 15 minutes later, two mechanics showed up to help us. Using charades, they explained us that the battery was indeed done for, and they went to fetch a new one. The wiring harness was adapted to take the new battery, which had the poles swapped compared to the battery BMW’s engineers had chosen in their infinite wisdom. Now everything worked. As we were ready to go, 4 hours late, mr. Adel asked us to join him for breakfast. In Sudan the eat breatfast around 1100. We had missed our opportunity at the embassy already, so why not? After a delicious meal with mr. Adel, his brother, and his son-in-law, we finally set sails towards Kahrtoum, reluctantly accepting that we would have to wait for a visa yet again

Mr. Adel, in the white gallabiya, with the mechanics.

On the way to Khartoum, we stopped at the Meroe pyramids. Not many people know that Sudan has twice as many pyramids as Egypt. The track to the pyramids was deep, deep sand. Going in, Camilla quickly fell over, but got up immediately with a big smile. After flipping her bike back onto the rubber, I tried to take it a bit further. And fell over. So now we both had the first spills of the trip. We decided that the sand was a bit too difficult for us and our heavy bikes, and kept going towards Khartoum.

A young local guy sold us a clay chicken made by his mom. In the background, the pyramids of Meroe.

In Khartoum, we were met by Omer, our Couchsurfing-host. A great experience. We moved in with his family and were happy that we were too late for the visa, so we could extend our stay there. Omer was 22 and lived with his mother Amona, his brother Mohammed, 25, and his brother-in-law. Two of their five sisters also lived nearby. The house was a collection of small rooms connected to a central courtyard. Toilet and shower had their own small shacks. The only furniture was beds. In the courtyard was broked fridge. Everything was very primitive. As Mohammed said with a grin, “welcome to Africa.”

Our room at Omer’s. Camilla slept in the tent to avoid mosquitoes.

The living room.

Amona.

It is difficult to overstate how great it was to stay with Omer and his familiy. We spoke a lot about Sudan and the world in general with both Omer and Muhammed, who were both very knowledgeable about the world. Life is not easy in Sudan, which has recently suffered from a high inflation due to the South Sudan separation and western sanctions (as a side note, we were completely unable to withdraw money, as foreign credit cards do not work there – but we knew that, and had brought cash). Despite the dire situation, Omer and Muhammed were endlessly happy and optimistic. Omer planned to start his own company, and Mohammed wanted to go find a job in Saudi Arabia. They both wanted to visit Europe – Omer dreamt about visiting all countries in the world – but it was impossible for them to get visas.

Omer spent two days showing us Khartoum, the highlights being the religious ritual dance Halgt Zihr at the Hamed el-Nil mosque, and, strangely, the bus system. There are no real official bus sytems in Khartoum, so everybody travel by more or less legal minibuses. Each destination has its own hand signal, which even Mohammed and Omer was sometimes unsure about. You then wave the signal at every passing driver, hoping that someone stops or answers with another signal. At bigger busterminals, the drivers have people yelling out the destiations. It is a bizzare, extremely complicated, and inefficient system, but it was interesting to experience.

Traditional headwear at Halgt Zihr.

While we were discussing politics, religion, and pop music with Omer and Mohammed, their mother cooked us one delicious meal after another. She spoke no English, except “again, again!” when she wanted us to take another round of tea. Two of the nights, the sisters Neshua and Nuseiba dropped by and joined the conversation as best they could. Neshua was a lawyer, a difficult job in Sudan because you were always “against the government.” Nuseiba was a nurse, working jobs at two different hospitals, ran a family with three kids, and made henna-tattoos on local women. And then she had attended night school to learn some English.

From the left: Neshua, Omer, Dania, Andreas, a brother-in-law, and Mohammed.

Our last night, everybody decided the Nuseiba should make Camilla a henna-tattoo, which evolved into a small party with all the grandchildren present, and we were put in traditional Sudanese clothes. Before we set out on this journey, Sudan had been the country we were the most nervous about, especially concerning security, but outside of Darfur, there are absolutely no problems. Even the crime rate is about the lowest in Africa. We give the country a definite recommendation, if you can live with the lack of traditional tourist attractions.

We really wanted to stay with Omers family, but had to keep going to South Africa. We went to the Ethiopian embassy with Omer and got our visas in only an hour and a half. We said goodbye and headed southeast. South of Khartoum, Sahara ended and the terrain grew steadyly more green. After a night at a horrible hotel (even though our standard are pretty low by now, we ended up sleeping in our tent in the parking lot) in the sad town Gedaref, we arrived at the Ethiopian border.

Dinner at the hotel in Gedaref, before the power cut out.

We had to stop for 20 camels.

Except annoying black market currency dealers, the border crossing was easy – and free. After two and a half hours of bureaucracy and lunch, we left for Gondar, where we are now. The border marked a total shift in nature. We are now in a luch, green hillscape, which might as well have been southern Germany. We are happy about the temperatures, which are now at a comfortable 20-25 degrees. Almost cold, compared to the 45 degrees we’ve been used to for a month now. Our first impression of Ethiopia is not as good as that of Sudan, but that is also a high bar. The nature Here is beautiful, but the people do not seems trustworthy. But let us hold back judgement, we have another 6 days here before we cross into Kenya.

]]>http://acrux.dk/wonderful-sudan/feed/0How long must we wait in Aswan?http://acrux.dk/how-long-must-we-wait-in-aswan/
http://acrux.dk/how-long-must-we-wait-in-aswan/#commentsMon, 03 Oct 2016 19:17:08 +0000http://acrux.dk/?p=1581[This post was written yesterday, when we were still in Aswan, but was never put online, due to a lack of internet. Meanwhile, we have made it to Abu Simbel, close to the Sudanese border.]

“I agree very much, that is a good philosophy of life,” says Andreas, after he also read and article from eurowoman.dk, whihc Anne Maria, my friend from high school, sent me this morning.

We’re still in Aswan and so bored that even Andreas has begun reading Eurowoman. We have been here long, far too long. We have seen what the town has to offer, and the local felucca-boat men, taxi drivers, and street hustlers seem to have learned that we are not interested in their business. We no longer need the menu at our usual restaurant. It is as if an everyday life has begun for us here. But one without much to offer.

Our usual restaurant. Their pizza is not exactly Italian, but it is very good.

We are having a good time, no doubt. We play cards, read, and walk. Have many long discussions. But that’s not why we’re in Aswan. The purpose with our stay here, was to get visas for Sudan. Lonely Planet says one should expect a 3 day wait.

The morning after our arrival at Keylany Hotel, Abdi, the very nice and helpful hotel manager, had already arranged a meeting with the fixer who could help us and our bikes escape Egypt. The meeting went smoothly – we walked through the process, handed our passport over to the Sudanese consulate for visa processing, and got the necessary paperwork done at the traffic court, proving we have no unpaid traffic tickets in Egypt.

Kamal, the fixer, thought we might get the visas as early as Thursday, only two days later. If not, we would have wait for the Egyptian weekend (Friday and Saturday) to pass, and we would have them Sunday. We had heard good things about Kamal, so we expected and planned to have our visas on Thursday and leave with the army convoy on Friday. Then we could enter Sudan on Saturday. That meant that we had two days to see what Aswan had to offer. Perfect. We visited the Nubian Museum and the Unfinished Obelisk, a granite column left in a quarry since ancient times. We also did a lot of reseach on our trip through Sudan and the following border crossing into Ethiopia. Important stuff for the next leg of our journey.

Thursday came around and we received the sad message that our visas were not done. The big boss at the consulate still had to sign them, and he was out of town. Really? A simple doodle was stopping ud from entering Sudan? We have paid Kamal good money for his help, so couldn’t we expect a bit faster processing? No? Ugh. Kamal had told us already that the employees of the consulate had recently been replaced, so he no longer had any good friends there, but still. We dried our eyes and put up our best smile, as we tried to stay happy. Booked another three night at our hotel. To minimize the waiting time, we decided to leave for the border on the same day as we would have our visa, Sunday.

As we had already been all over Aswan, we did not have much to do, except playing cards at the rooftop terrace, take a walk, read and play cards on the rooftop terrace, eat pizza at “our” restaurant, read and play cards on the rooftop terrace, read and play cards on the rooftop terrace, read and play cards on the rooftop terrace. The waiting was a bit annoying.

The fantastic rooftop terrace.

Andreas went to the baker for bread and cookies.

On the few days where we did not eat pizza, we cooked on the roof.

We talked a lot about how nice is would be to get on to Sudan. We both really looked forward to seeing “the real Africa” south of Sudan, as we felt we had met the Arab culture by now. Even Abdi shared our enthusiasm for getting the visas and get going Sunday. On Saturday morning, as he served us the great breakfast consisting of pancakes, toast, and fruit, he asked us “are you ready to go to Sudan tomorrow? When do you want the breakfast?” We were very much ready. We had checked the oil on our bikes, lubricated the chains, and acquired another 4 liters of fuel in soda bottles, so we could be sure my bike would make it through the desert to Abu Simbel.

Fuel.

But. As we entered the lobby that afternoon, the evening receptionist broke off his prayer by looking right and saying something, then looking left and saying the same. He looked at us. Sitting on his small stool, he explained to us, that this Sunday was a public holiday in Egypt, so the consulate would be closed. That meant we could not get our visas. Huh? How did the receptionist know what we had agreed on with Abdi and Kamal? But he did, Kamal had called him with the bad news. But what kind of holiday appears out of nowhere? Apparently, this was the muslim new years – the day that the prophet Muhammed went from Medina to Mecca. How is that even a surprise to anybody local?

Maybe hats for new year’s?

It seems as if planning ahead is a weakness for many Egyptians. We see it in the traffic, the refusal to pay taxes, the unfinished houses, and now, apparently, the knowledge of public holidays. It was quite frustrating nobody had told us until 12 hours before we were supposed to leave.

At this moment, we’re sitting in our room on our beds with our iPad. The air-conditioning is set to 21 degrees. And this is where the article from Eurowoman is relevant. It is about living life and not worrying about changing things you cannot change. It reminds me that I have plenty of reasons to be happy. I’m in Egypt, traveling with Andreas, who I’m crazy about. We get enough to eat every day, sleep great in soft beds, in a temperature we can adjust. Maybe the visa did not come after 3 days as I had hoped, but so what? Instead we have had a lot of time to think about life, its challenges and its positive sides. We have no reason to complain.

But with that said, we are SO ready to leave for Sudan tomorrow!

Trash of generations. Or at least a lot of trash.

This boat must have had Danish visitors.

It’s hard to believe we can carry all of this on our bikes.

]]>http://acrux.dk/how-long-must-we-wait-in-aswan/feed/3The other Egypthttp://acrux.dk/the-other-egypt/
http://acrux.dk/the-other-egypt/#respondWed, 28 Sep 2016 18:02:12 +0000http://acrux.dk/?p=1551It was difficult to hold back a grin, as I was staring out the window of Ahmed’s sparkling white Mitsubishi Lancer with a rally-spoiler and Sia’s latest hit “Chandeliers” at full volume on the stereo. Just two days earlier, I had laughed at the surrealism of driving through the dirty streets of Alexandria in Mahmouds taxi, a 40 year old black and yellow Lada 1200 with christmas music in the underpowered speakers – Celine Dion’s version of Last Christmas. The contrast could not be any stronger.

After finally receiving our motorcycles in Alexandria, we rode towards Cairo that same night. We had arranged to stay with Ahmed, another Couchsurfer. We were to just stay one night, as we had seen most of Cairo already, and frankly yearned to get further south. Our impression of Egypt was mostly trash, chaos, and poverty – and no desire to improve things.

An upside-down Dutch license plate hiding behind the Egyptian one. This seems to be very fashionable in Cairo.

As we stepped through Ahmed’s door, we entered another version of Egypt, completely separate from the one we knew. The two Egypts might share name and location, but they have nothing to do with each other. Ahmed was a pharmacist and lived in a nice apartment in a 5-6 story apartment building his family had built. One of his brothers – an IT-specialist – lived downstairs with his familiy, and the other brother – CEO and owner of an IT-company – commuted back and forth between his branches in Egypt and Dubai. His mom also lived in the building, which she had designed. The rest of the apartments were to be rented out, but they were not yet finished.

Ahmed lived close to Mall of Arabia, the largest mall in Egypt. After we had showered, he asked us if we wanted to go out. We were a little tired, but did not want to disappoint the almost aggressively hospitable Ahmed. So we went to the mall, and after a very superficial check for weapons in the car, we parked at entrance number 21. This place is huge.

Just walking from one end to the other took 30 minutes. The place is chock full of western stores, from Nike to Giorgio Armani. Everything is white and well-designed. The place can easily compete with any American mall I’ve been to. We dropped by on the first weekend night of the week, and the place was crowded with people in fashionable clothes, high heels, carrying plastic bags.

We ate at a good restaurant in the mall. Veal medallion in mushroom sauce was a bit of a departure from fuul (beans) and koshari (macaroni with rice and roasted onions). It was around 10, and Ahmed explained that Egyptians have no fixed meal times. They just eat when they are hungry. The entire mall was open until 1 am. Even at midnight small kids were running around, playing. Apparently Egyptians never sleep.

Ahmed wanted nothing to do with the idea of us leaving the next day, and to be honest, a day of luxury suited us well. Ahmed was on vacation and wanted to show us the parts of Cairo we had not yet seen. He brought us to the quarter of christian churches, which was very interesting to see. There’s a long way from a Danish protestant church to a coptic cathedral in the heart of Cairo.

Then he took us to an upscale café along the Nile, where we had a light, late lunch. Ahmed ordered sheesha (hookah), but did not have much luck in selling us that idea. Meanwhile, time passed, and the sunset was about ready for the main attraction of the day: A trip with a felucca – a sailing ship – on the Nile.

Ahmed parked us at the gate to the pier and continued past the dozen of other tourists trying to rent a boat. Getting a good price would be easier without us. Shortly after, he was back and escorted us past another group of 10-15 tourists boarding a felucca. We jumped into our own private felucca. Pink, as per Camilla’s wishes.

We sailed around in the sunset for about an hour, with sails and rudder expertly operated by our weathered captain. It was a thoroughly magic experience.

We sailed in the left-hand Felucca.

On our way home, we stopped by a Cinnabun, had cakes as large as handballs, and met Ahmeds good friend Mohammed, who worked at Cairo American University and spoke a fluent American. And was a very nice guy.

Next morgen we just had to get going, no matter how we enjoyed staying at Ahmed’s. My friend Mads was in Luxor for work, but about to return home. It would be nice to say hi to him, and he also had some dollars, which we kind of needed. Ahmed had told us that there was not much to see on the way there, so we decided to do the entire trip in one day. We had neven before done 700 km at once, but were ensured that the army had recently built a great new road.

And they had. Going there went really well, with three exceptions. After a couple of hours we got worried about Camilla’s coolant level. We could not see the level in the tank, so we had to get the tools out and take some plastic off the bike. Fortunately, there were no problems. A bit later, just afted we had refueled, my bike complained about an almost empty tank. By mistake, I had only filled my extra tank, not my main tank. We had to go back 30 km to refuel properly. Gas stations are rare in Sahara. At the end of the day, we were withheld at a checkpoint in Qena for 45 minutes for no reason. “We must wait for cheif. 10 minutes.” 45 minutes later, the cheif had not shown up, and we were let go.

Coolant level: No problem!

But we made it to Luxor around 8 pm and had a nice dinner with Mads, as we shared our frustrations about Egyptians. He let us know that they are also not great at building and running cement plants. It was a really weird thought that Mads would be back in Aalborg 24 hours later, now that we had spent more than at month going to Luxor.

In Luxor we visited Valley of the Kings and the Karnak temple, with private driver and guide. Everything was of course arranged but wonderful Ahmed, who knew somebody who knew somebody. Our guide had a degree in history and was very competent. Both attractions were fantastic, much better than the pyramids.

From Luxor, we rode to Aswan, where we had to coordinate the border crossing to Sudan. It is not something you just do, it involves a military escort (for no real reason, everybody agrees it is safe here), a ferry ride, and about a day of paperwork at the border. We had a taste of this on the way to Aswan, where we suddenly had police escort. Out of the blue, a police car appeared in front of us, and when we tried to overtake, we were to to stay behind. Then, every 20 km, the car was relieved by a new one, and they ended up escorting us all the way to the hotel. For no good reason. Aswan feels very safe.

Bazaar in Aswan.

The locals eat bread like this for every meal. They taste of nothing.

Ahmed says hi every day as we pass his store.

Spices are available by the truck load. Unfortunately, we’re on bikes…

Why bother opening the gate all the time? Just go under.

Now we’re sitting at the rooftop terrace of the hotel, waiting for our Sudan visa. Hopefully we’ll have it tomorrow, but noone dares to promise anything. If not, we have to wait here for another three days. We’ll see.

Parking for guests of honor at the Aswan hotel (the excellent and cheap Keylany).

Night after night in Aswan, we go to the same café for a drink and internet.